


Do you ever dream?

by Carry_the_Fire



Series: Fire's Ferdibert "week" 2020 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Black Eagles Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Canon-Typical Violence, Impostor Syndrome, M/M, Past Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carry_the_Fire/pseuds/Carry_the_Fire
Summary: When a routine scouting mission goes awry, Ferdinand and Ashe share a dangerous journey back to friendly territory and discover they have more in common than they thought.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir & Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Fire's Ferdibert "week" 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871365
Comments: 22
Kudos: 101





	Do you ever dream?

**Author's Note:**

> For Ferdibert week day 2: Fear

It all happens very quickly. One moment, Ashe is quietly explaining how to tell how long a campfire has been out by the condition of the cinders. The next, there’s a _thunk_ and an arrow is quivering in the trunk of a nearby tree, having missed Ferdinand’s nose by inches.

“Kingdom troops!” one of their contingent shouts. 

They look up to see at least a score of blue-bannered soldiers emerging from the mist, including three on horseback. It only takes a moment of mental calculation — they’re downhill, a lightly-armored scouting unit of nine units, and the Kingdom group they’ve been skirting has at least fifty in total. Ferdinand knows there’s only one option.

“Flee!” he commands.

No one needs to be told twice.They take off at various angles into the Gaspard Wood, arrows whistling through the trees at their backs, hoofbeats announcing cavalry in pursuit. 

In his peripheral vision, Ferdinand sees Ashe heading into the denser part of the forest and adjusts his own course to follow, drawing his shortsword to hack at the branches that impede his way. They’re in the archer’s home territory — when in doubt, trust the locals.

It’s not long before Ferdinand realizes they’ve lost sight of the rest of their squadron, but there’s no time to worry about that. By the sound of it, there are at least three Kingdom soldiers on their tail, one mounted and two or three on foot, probably archers if the frequency of the shots around them is any indication.

An arrow glances off Ferdinand’s pauldron, and another clips his cloak. Still they run, the advantage of Ferdinand’s longer legs losing ground to Ashe’s nimble gait and smaller frame as the thicket grows ever denser.

The next arrow hits Ferdinand square on the elbow guard, sending a sharp ripple through his forearm and ripping a noise of pain from his throat.

He has a feeling he’s about to become an Adrestian pincushion when he sees Ashe unsling his bow from his back, draw an arrow, and plant a foot to turn back towards their pursuers. A shout and a thud announce his shot has found a mark, but the hoofbeats continue. And now Ashe has lost his momentum, is standing his ground to draw another arrow, and the cavalier on their tail is bearing down on him—

—Ferdinand swings about to face their attackers, throwing down his sword and placing himself directly in front of Ashe. The cavalier barrels across the last few yards, hefts his spear and prepares to strike. At this speed, Ferdinand knows if he miscalculates he’ll be run through, but he hasn’t spent half his own life on horseback not to know the geometry of a mounted thrust. The spear whooshes into empty air as Ferdinand dodges to the side, and a split second later his hands have closed around the weapon’s handle.

As he yanks hard, he hears the twang of Ashe’s bowstring, and another yelp suggests a second target downed somewhere behind the horse. The cavalier doesn’t have the good sense to let go of his spear when Ferdinand pulls, so he tumbles headfirst off his mount as its charge continues, now riderless, off into the wood. Without hesitation, Ferdinand flips the spear and drives it down into the man’s chest, killing him instantly.

That leaves one archer, barely visible through some thirty feet of mist, advancing towards them with an arrow already nocked. Before Ferdinand or Ashe can do anything, she lets it fly.

The arrow sings toward them. Ferdinand rolls forward, grabbing his sword from the leaf-strewn ground. To his dismay, he hears Ashe cry out and fall behind him, but Ferdinand doesn’t stop to look as he charges headlong towards the enemy archer, who is reaching for another arrow. She never gets a chance to fire it before Ferdinand’s blade leaves her lifeless on the forest floor.

“Ashe!” Ferdinand calls out, pulling his sword free and rushing back, past the bodies of the two archers the other man’s arrows felled. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Ashe calls back to Ferdinand’s relief, though his voice is trembling. He’s struggling to sit up, both hands cradling his right thigh, from which an arrow protrudes. His chest is heaving a little, whether from pain or the effort of the chase it’s unclear. 

Ferdinand drops his sword and kneels at the other man’s side, easing him up and pulling him back so he can sit propped against a nearby birch trunk.

“That does not look ‘all right,’” says Ferdinand. Dark blood is already beginning to soak through Ashe’s breeches. 

“It’s not — not in the bone,” Ashe grits out, attempting a reassuring smile. 

“You could still bleed out,” says Ferdinand. _And we are in the middle of the woods, and there are still enemies near, and I am no healer,_ he thinks grimly, but doesn’t give voice to those realities. He’s sure Ashe is perfectly aware of all three.

Thinking quickly, Ferdinand looks around to make sure no further Kingdom agents have followed them. He draws a knife from his belt and begins cutting a long strip from his cloak, doubling back several times to get a sufficient length. As Ashe looks on, he carefully winds the makeshift bandage around and around the other man’s leg, pulling it snug around both sides of the arrow. If there were a proper healer present, it would be simple enough to remove the head and close the wound. But neither of them knows even basic Faith, and he used up his only vulnerary on another scout’s sprained ankle yesterday morning. The best he can do is stabilize Ashe enough that they can get to safety and seek real help.

“This will hurt,” Ferdinand warns apologetically as he prepares to clip the shaft. 

For some reason he’s expecting a biting, sarcastic response, but Ashe just nods, his face even paler than usual. He makes no sound when Ferdinand carefully grasps the wood just above the wound to stabilize it, though his eyes screw shut when it’s not enough to keep the arrowhead from moving a little with the sawing of the knife.

“There,” says Ferdinand when he’s finished, tossing the fletched end into the underbrush. They both let out a deep breath. “We should not stay here with the enemy so close — do you think your other leg can take weight?”

Ashe nods again, grabbing his bow and shifting to put his good leg beneath him. Ferdinand helps him upright easily, the archer’s lithe frame no burden for a seasoned cavalier.

Ferdinand is tempted to double back, try to find some of the rest of their unit, but it’s too dangerous. If they encounter any more Kingdom soldiers in this state, neither of them will make it back to Lady Edelgard.

Their best bet is to find somewhere to hide until the Kingdom troops move on, then make for Garreg Mach. It’s a journey of two days in good conditions. Like this, it’ll probably take three or four, but if they can get to the border with Arundel, make it back into the Empire, perhaps they can find a healer and better transport.

With a glance at the position of the late afternoon sun, a dull glare through the persistent fog, Ferdinand points them southward and takes a careful first step, Ashe’s arm slung around his shoulders. His pauldron makes this an awkward ordeal, but they manage it, their ears alert to the crunch of every leaf and the snap of every twig as they hobble along through enemy territory.

* * *

  
  


“Thank you,” murmurs Ashe as Ferdinand hands him his waterskin, refilled from a nearby stream. The sun is flagging and so, too, is their energy — they’ve made it six or seven miles by Ferdinand’s estimation, and it seems they can go no further today. 

Thankfully they’ve found a little den, unoccupied at this point in the spring, just a hollow beneath a rock outcropping shielded by the protruding roots of a great oak. Ferdinand would certainly have missed it, but Ashe’s keen gaze and experience with these woods still serve him, even glassy-eyed with pain and fatigue. Now that Ferdinand has found some water and covered up their nearby tracks as best he can, it’s time to rest for the night.

“I am afraid I do not have much in the way of food,” says Ferdinand, pulling what he does have from his hip pack — they ate what little Ashe was carrying some hours before. “I am a terrible forager, as you do not need to be told.”

(Ashe has spent the better part of the scouting trip attempting to educate Ferdinand about wilderness survival, a skill Ferdinand never picked up on his childhood expeditions into nature, as they tended to involve a whole retinue of attendants and guards.)

Ferdinand splits the hardtack into two uneven pieces and cuts the jerky into little strips with his knife, laying it on its wrapper between them.

“It’s all right,” says Ashe, shaking his head as Ferdinand tries to hand him the larger piece of tack. “Please, you’ve practically been carrying me the last few hours. You must be starving.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” says Ferdinand, who _is_ starving, but that’s beside the point. “You are hurt. You need your strength.” 

“I couldn’t—”

“—I insist.”

“I’m—” Ashe starts to say, then abruptly falls silent.

Ferdinand doesn’t push him to continue, just keeps holding out the biscuit. 

“Okay,” says Ashe, his gaze flicking down resignedly. “Thank you.”

He accepts the tack and takes a bite, eyes falling shut as though the stale grain is some kind of delicacy. Ferdinand chews his piece and falls silent too, exhaustion settling heavily over them. 

“We will rest here tonight,” says Ferdinand, trying to summon his usual pluck. “Tomorrow, we make for the Empire. We can forage up some of those wild leeks you were showing me the other day, or perhaps find some small game to hunt.”

Ashe nods mutely, reaching for his waterskin to take another drink. 

Ferdinand takes the opportunity to look at the archer’s leg from where he sits on the other side of the cramped little cave. At this point, the right side of Ashe’s dark grey breeches is stained through and through, but the blood appears to have dried, which would suggest the wound has at least partially closed. That brings some relief. Still, the risk of infection looms in Ferdinand’s mind, particularly with the arrowhead still in place, and he imagines Ashe is in considerable pain, though he hasn’t complained once since he took the blow.

“I estimate we are about twenty miles from the border with Arundel,” says Ferdinand, deciding there’s not much he can do about the injury at this point, and so no use asking to see it. “If we rest well tonight and push ourselves tomorrow, I believe we can make the journey before sundown. We will find you help there, a proper healer, and horses for the journey back to Garreg Mach.”

Ashe nods again, but doesn’t lift his eyes. Ferdinand, having grown accustomed to easy conversation between them these last few days, can’t tell if he’s tired, in pain, or simply distracted. Most likely it is a combination.

“I realize the foolishness of the question,” says Ferdinand haltingly, “but...your wound aside...are you all right, Ashe?”

“Yes,” says Ashe, as though by reflex, his eyes flashing guiltily up to meet Ferdinand’s. “I...I’m sorry. I was just thinking.”

“You do not need to apologize,” says Ferdinand. “It has been a very long day, and I know you must be in great discomfort. I do not mean to pry. But if there is a matter troubling you that I have the power to address, I hope you will name it.” 

Ashe swallows, shifting his hips slightly to try to achieve a more comfortable position and wincing when the motion jostles his injury. When he speaks, his voice is very quiet, and once again he avoids Ferdinand’s eyes.

“I was thinking,” he says, “that it would be better if you left me here, tomorrow.”

Ferdinand frowns deeply.

“I mean it,” Ashe presses before Ferdinand can speak, meeting his eyes with an alarming earnestness. “There are still Kingdom troops in the woods, maybe even looking for us. I can’t move quickly or with any sort of stealth right now. You’re much more likely to be caught if you’re with me.”

“And you are much more likely to die if I abandon you in the woods,” says Ferdinand indignantly. “Surely you do not think I would consider such a thing.”

“It’s more important that you get back safely,” Ashe argues. “For the war effort, and Lady Edelgard’s plans.”

“Even if I were to accept that as truth, which I do not,” says Ferdinand, “I could hardly walk back into Garreg Mach with my head held high having left a fellow soldier behind. And that does not even account for the fact that that soldier is a captain of the Imperial Army, and my own dear friend.”

“You don’t need to flatter me, Ferdie,” says Ashe with a pained smile. “I know you were only asked to join my scouts to ensure I didn’t betray Her Majesty on this mission. We _are_ in Kingdom territory, after all.”

Ferdinand sits up a little straighter, alarmed.

“That is patently untrue,” he says, staring Ashe straight in the eyes. 

“Is it?” says Ashe. He doesn’t sound bitter — a little sad, perhaps, but not bitter. “Why else would Adrestia’s top general, its next Prime Minister, be sent on a routine scouting expedition? Particularly since...well, I don’t mean to be rude, but by your own admission you don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing.”

“Your battalion’s best swordsman is still recovering after last month’s encounter with the Western Church,” says Ferdinand. “Perhaps Lady Edelgard thought it important you have a replacement of comparable strength until Zadina is fit to return to duty.” 

“Ferdinand,” says Ashe tiredly. “I don’t believe either of us thinks Lady Edelgard made the assignment.”

“Fine, then,” says Ferdinand, throwing up his hands. “You may be right, but you should not take it to heart. Hubert does not trust anyone.” 

“He trusts you,” says Ashe softly, lifting his eyes to Ferdinand’s and giving him a wistful little smile.

Ferdinand schools his expression into one of amused skepticism, forcing a laugh. 

“Hardly,” he says. “In fact, I would wager it is just as likely he sent me on this mission to ensure your loyalty as that he did so in the hope that I would be eaten by bears.” 

That gets a weak laugh from Ashe.

“In all sincerity, though,” says Ferdinand, “I cannot speak for Lady Edelgard with full authority, but I do not believe she has any doubts about your allegiance. You have fought bravely by our side for three long years. You have had many chances to turn on us, and just as many reasons, but you are still here.”

Ashe is silent for a long moment, like he’s trying hard to believe him.

“And if it needs to be said,” says Ferdinand, more gently. “ _I_ certainly have no doubts about your loyalty. Perhaps I do not know you as well as Petra does, or Caspar, but I trust your intentions and your character. And I like to think I am a sound judge of both.”

“Thank you,” Ashe says finally. He still doesn’t sound quite convinced, but he sounds done pressing the issue.

Ferdinand nods, drinking from his own waterskin as Ashe lets his head rest back against the dirt of the cave wall. As the darkness grows, silence falls between them, as comfortable as it can be considering their exhaustion and Ashe’s injury.

“For all you talk of bears...you don’t fight the way you used to,” remarks Ashe eventually. “With Hubert, I mean.”

“You may be right,” says Ferdinand. It’s his turn to avoid the other man’s eyes. “There is a war on. I suppose we have both found more important things to do with our time.”

“I’m glad,” says Ashe with a soft smile.

“Oh?” says Ferdinand. “I did not realize our disputes were such a nuisance, even to those outside the Strike Force.” 

“No, I —” Ashe starts, suddenly sounding uncertain. “I just mean that...I’m glad for you. For both of you.” 

“I am...not sure I understand your meaning,” says Ferdinand lightly, willing his ears not to burn. There is no way Ashe knows. They have been painfully discreet.

Ashe looks at him a moment, as though deciding whether or not to say something. In the low light, his green eyes are soft and questioning.

“We had better sleep if we are to rise with the light tomorrow,” says Ferdinand, seizing the reins rather than waiting to see where Ashe will take them. “I will take the first watch. Please, get some rest. Much as I wish it were not so, tomorrow will be a grueling day.”

If Ashe finds his abrupt rush to end their conversation odd, he’s too tired or perhaps too polite to remark on it. Instead, he nods, unclips his cloak, and carefully maneuvers himself onto his back, pulling his leather quiver beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. Ferdinand reaches over to help draw the cloak up around him, feeling guilty that he didn’t manage to find any yarrow root for him to chew to ease the pain in his leg. If their positions were reversed, he has no doubt Ashe would have managed it.

“Thank you, Ferdie,” murmurs Ashe after a moment, eyes closed. He sounds bone-tired. “For...not leaving me behind.”

“Think nothing of it,” says Ferdinand, reaching over to lay a gentle hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Now rest, my friend.” 

And Ashe does, leaving Ferdinand alone with his thoughts as the woods grow dark around them.

Truth be told, Ferdinand isn’t sure why he was sent on this mission either. He is undeniably a poor scout — part of him guiltily wonders if it was some error he made that led to their discovery — and there is always plenty of work for him at Garreg Mach. If they’d truly needed a dependable warrior to join Ashe’s troop, it would have made much more sense to send Petra, who is not only Ferdinand’s better in unmounted combat, but an accomplished tracker and hunter, and Ashe’s closest friend on the Strike Force to boot.

But over the past year or so, he has noticed a pattern. Whenever Lord Arundel is due to visit Garreg Mach, he is sent away. Sometimes it’s a diplomatic errand, sometimes it’s a military mission; one time it was an escort for a political prisoner, and this time it was scouting Kingdom forces in Gaspard. One way or another, it seems clear that Hubert and Edelgard don’t want him privy to these meetings.

This doesn't bother Ferdinand as much as it might have once. At the start of the war, he would certainly have considered it a slight, demanded to be included, seen it as his duty to know everything Edelgard knew about the war and its progression. But he’s come to understand that there are different roles they all need to play if they are to free Fódlan from the shackles of the old nobility. There are things the three of them must know that they can’t share with the other members of the Strike Force, not because they don’t trust them, but because the knowledge would put the others in danger. There are things Edelgard and Hubert must know that Ferdinand must not if he is to be able to look their allies in the eye and put them at ease when he shakes their hands. And if Ferdinand understands correctly, there are things Hubert must know that even Edelgard does not, secrets he’ll take to the grave for all their sakes.

Still, Ferdinand thinks as he watches Ashe fall into a fitful sleep, after this, he might drop the pretense and talk to Hubert about giving him some say in where he’s dispatched when Arundel visits. It isn’t fair to burden the troops with someone like Ferdinand for a stealth mission in the woods. And it isn’t fair to let Ashe go on thinking he doesn’t have their trust when he’s spent the last three years risking life and limb to earn it.

Ferdinand knows that particular feeling all too well. He remembers the way Hubert delivered the news of his father’s house arrest just after the incident at the Rite of Rebirth, when Ferdinand was still recovering from the awful gash the Immaculate One’s claws had rendered in his back. _Aegir is fallen,_ Hubert had sneered from the doorway of the infirmary. _Where will you go now?_

As though Ferdinand had been looking for an excuse to leave Edelgard’s side. As though he had been ignorant of or apathetic to his father’s corruption. As though he'd put himself between a dragon and his emperor out of shallow chivalry, and not because his belief in their cause burned brighter than any ideal he’d previously held.

Fighting a war is awful enough with trusted friends at your side. Fighting it alone…

Ferdinand looks down at Ashe again. He is shivering slightly in his sleep — Faerghus’ climate is unforgiving, even halfway through the Harpstring Moon — and his hand has curled reflexively around the handle of his bow, as though ready to defend himself even in his dreams.

Quietly, Ferdinand unbuckles his own cape and moves to drape it over the other man, whose trembling slowly eases. The chill wastes no time setting in for Ferdinand, but he can bear it. It will help keep him alert for the watch.

* * *

After about six uneventful hours spent listening for danger and stewing in his thoughts, Ferdinand wakes Ashe with some regret. He knows he needs to sleep at least three or four himself, or risk being dangerously unalert for the next leg of their journey. 

“How does your leg feel?” he asks quietly as he helps the other man up into a sitting position.

Ashe just attempts a grim smile. That tells Ferdinand all he needs to know. 

Ashe is embarrassed to find Ferdinand’s cloak over him and insists on its return. He attempts to offer his own as well, appealing to fairness, but Ferdinand wins that fight easily. He is not the one carrying an arrowhead in his leg.

Soon Ferdinand sleeps, instructing Ashe to wake him at first light. His last thoughts as he drifts off are of Ashe’s earlier words — _it would be better if you left me here —_ and the strange, sad way they make him feel.

* * *

The next morning they continue towards Arundel, both men stubbornly uncomplaining. The fog is just as thick as the day before and the sky a little greyer, a layer of dark clouds blowing in on an ominous breeze.

They limp through the wood without speaking. There’s little they can do to be less visible — though they’re both dressed in the greys and browns of the Imperial Scouts rather than their regular clothes, they can’t do much with the cover of the trees when Ashe’s leg still won’t hold him. The least they can do is draw no further attention by being as quiet as possible, at least while they’re on the move.

The morning could go worse, overall. They find some yarrow at last and a number of wild mushrooms that Ashe is confident aren’t poisonous, which quiet some of the grumbling of their empty stomachs. Shortly after, they come across a long, sturdy oak branch that Ashe manages to use as a crutch for a few hours, once he’s notched an easier grip into it with his hunting knife. Still, by early afternoon it’s clear he’s exhausted, stumbling every other step, and they return to having Ferdinand bear most of his weight. 

And then it begins to rain. 

Ferdinand tries to spin it as a blessing, at first — “it will cover our trail,” he tells Ashe with more optimism than he feels — but within the span of an hour, what starts as a drizzle becomes a steady rainfall and escalates into an outright downpour. Realizing that their three-legged operation is no match for the increasingly muddy, root-dense ground, they quickly turn their trek for the border into a search for shelter.

By some miracle, before long they come upon a little shack, a crudely built thing of birch and pine nestled in a grove of poplar trees. The lock on its door is long since rusted and yields to a blow from the hilt of Ferdinand’s sword. It’s not tall enough for either of them to stand or long enough for either of them to lie down, but it’s wide enough for them to sit shoulder to shoulder and stretch out their weary legs. On the walls hang a number of old hunting lures and traps, most in disrepair, and on the floor there are a few molded furs. Clearly, this was once a trapper’s supply shed, but it seems no one has been here in many moons.

Ferdinand takes both their cloaks and gets up on his knees to hang them from empty hooks on the wall, hoping they will dry even a little bit while they seek refuge here. The shed itself isn’t perfectly waterproof — there are a number of insistent drips, unfortunately spaced — but given the pounding of the rain outside, it’s still worlds better than staying outside. 

“Thank you,” says Ashe when Ferdinand sits back down beside him. His grey hair is plastered to his forehead and his face is paler than ever. He’s shivering again, but this time there’s not really anything Ferdinand can do about it.

Realizing how tight the space is, Ferdinand fumbles with the buckle of his pauldron — if he removes it, they will both fit more comfortably. His wet, cold-numb fingers can’t quite manage the task, so Ashe reaches over to help, and between the two of them they manage to wrestle the armor off Ferdinand’s aching shoulders. 

“There,” says Ferdinand, sighing when the thing is resting by his feet, up against the door of the shed. “I suppose we were due for a break, anyway.”

He doesn’t know how to be anything but relentlessly positive when things go wrong. In the past, Ashe has generally been right there with him, amenable to idle chatter and quick to find a bright side. But the other man just smiles weakly in response, leaning back against the wall now that they can both fit. Truth be told, Ferdinand finds the current silence unnerving.

He tries a new angle.

“Petra has told me we have you to thank for the herb garden in the greenhouse,” he says. “How did you come by your green thumb?”

“I — ah,” Ashe begins distractedly. “Lord...Lord Lonato, my adoptive father, taught me a lot about gardening. Mostly medicinal plants and their properties, but...that’s how I started, anyway.”

Ferdinand remembers Lonato, recalls the man’s rage against the church and the sick feeling in his own stomach when Catherine struck him down. It had been a cruel mission Rhea had sent them on — not as cruel as sending the Blue Lions would have been, as Ashe had still numbered among them at the time — but a cruel mission nonetheless.

“I see,” says Ferdinand. “I apologize, Ashe. I did not mean to bring up a sensitive subject.”

“It’s okay,” says Ashe quietly after a moment, his gaze distant. “When we think of the people we’ve lost...it’s like they’re still with us.”

He sounds like he’s quoting something or someone, though Ferdinand doesn’t recognize the source.

“I never had the honor of meeting Lord Lonato,” says Ferdinand as the rain hammers away at the roof of the shack. “But I am told he was a great man — strong, wise, and full of compassion. A true noble.”

“He was,” Ashe agrees. “So was Christophe, his...his birth son. My brother.” 

Ferdinand is quiet for a moment, unsure what to say. He lets the rush of the rain fill the silence between them. Ashe is looking away, down to where his arms are cradled in his lap, one hand fiddling idly with the laces of his bracer.

“I know it probably sounds silly to you,” says Ashe, not looking up. “But...I still aspire to be like them.”

“That is not silly at all,” says Ferdinand.“Why should it be?” 

“Because I’m a commoner,” says Ashe. “So I know I can’t ever be a noble in the way Lord Lonato or Christophe were, but...I hope I can act nobly, all the same.” 

“Ashe,” says Ferdinand.. “I believe you can be every bit the noble that your father and brother were. I would go so far as to say that in many respects, you already are."

Ashe looks up in surprise.

“But I thought you…” he says, trailing off. 

“I fear I gave everyone a very poor impression of what I believe, at the Academy,” says Ferdinand. “That is my own failing. But I have never seen nobility as purely a matter of lineage, at least not since I was a little boy. True, there are values and customs that are passed on through family tradition, and thus noble families that have distinguished themselves across generations. But I have known many so-called nobles who I believe did not deserve the title, and just as many commoners who did, regardless of their bloodline.” 

“Really?” says Ashe. “That’s...surprisingly progressive of you, Ferdie.”

Ferdinand opens his mouth and Ashe immediately flushes, realizing what he’s said.

  
“I’m sorry,” he stammers out. “I — I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t be…that you’d think...”

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” says Ferdinand, fighting his own embarrassment. “It is not unreasonable you would think that way. I know I can be quite old-fashioned about many things.” 

“Only some things,” says Ashe charitably.

“Tea,” offers Ferdinand, poking fun at himself. “And poetry. And dancing. And letter-writing. And the care of horses. And—”

“—okay, maybe a lot of things,” Ashe admits with a quiet, genuine laugh. Ferdinand feels a little thrill of victory to see a hint of the archer’s usual vivacity return, even if the pained tension at the corners of his mouth doesn’t fully ease.

The conversation lulls for a moment. The rain does not. 

“Ashe,” says Ferdinand, realizing they’ll be here a while yet. “I have been thinking about what you said yesterday, about the purpose of sending me with your scouts. About whether or not you have the trust of the other Black Eagles.”

Ashe looks over at him.

“You first joined us for the Battle of Garreg Mach more than three years ago,” says Ferdinand. “You took up your bow when you heard about the archbishop’s deception, and you have fought valiantly for Lady Edelgard and her cause since. It saddens me to think that after all of this you still think of yourself as an outsider.”

Ashe shifts uncomfortably against the damp packed dirt of the floor. His fingers return to his bracer, worrying the frayed edges of the cord with his thumb.

“Please don’t worry about it,” he says. “I...I shouldn’t have said anything. I was tired and hurt and it just came out.” 

“We are often at our most honest when we are tired and hurt, I find.”

A lesson he learned from Hubert, of all people. Ferdinand lets himself remember fading candlelight, ink and bloodstains on white gloves, a touch on his wrist silently bidding him _stay, please._

Ashe sighs. He looks down at his lap, then over at Ferdinand, then up to the leaking roof, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. 

“It isn’t…” he begins, struggling to find the words. “I’m not…I'm used to feeling this way. Even at the Officers Academy, as a member of the Blue Lions class, I was never sure I really...that I was really one of them.” 

Ferdinand nods, watching the other man’s face in the low light.

“I didn’t earn my place at Garreg Mach,” Ashe continues. “Everyone else, either they were noble-born like you, so they’ve been preparing their whole lives, or they’d worked hard for their spot, like Dorothea or Leonie. But not me. I was just lucky, to have been chosen by a noble family to attend, even though I’m not really anybody.. It was hard to feel like a real Blue Lion, much less a real Black Eagle.”

“I am sorry you were made to feel that way,” says Ferdinand, frowning.

“No, no one made me feel that way,” says Ashe, shaking his head. “It was just something I felt. Everyone was always kind, I just...I knew I didn’t deserve to be there.”

“You did,” Ferdinand presses, laying a hand on Ashe’s arm. “I understand why you would doubt it, or at least I think I do. But you deserved your place as much as any of us. In fact, I would say you deserved it more than someone like me.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You acted nobly, despite a lack of noble upbringing,” says Ferdinand. “You performed admirably alongside many who have had countless advantages over you. That you met your classwork without those advantages proves your talent, and your diligence was well known across every house. Compare this with someone like me, well — yes, I excelled in my studies, and on the battlefield — but my father was preparing me to be the next Prime Minister of Adrestia before I could talk. How could I _not_ succeed, with such preparation?”

  
Ferdinand lets out a humorless laugh, removing his hand from Ashe’s arm so he can rub the side of his neck self-consciously. 

“I suspect that without the benefit of my upbringing, I would be quite unremarkable,” Ferdinand finishes. “Certainly less remarkable than you.” 

“Ferdie,” says Ashe, his voice quiet. “I don’t think the things that make you remarkable have anything to do with your father or your upbringing.”

Ferdinand’s chest constricts with that familiar feeling that always accompanies praise: one part dizzy elation, two parts guilt at its undeservedness. 

“Look at us,” he laughs uncomfortably. “A captain and a general, both of us convinced we’ve fooled the world into thinking we are more than we are.” 

Ashe returns the laugh with a faint smile, letting his head rest against the wall of the shed. He shifts his bad leg and winces.

They fall into a more companionable silence. The rain has eased just a little, no longer a thunderous downpour, but it’s still a steady beat. The drip over Ferdinand’s right calf pings against his greaves every so often, an almost musical sound. 

After several minutes, out of the blue, Ashe speaks again.

“Sometimes I _feel_ like a traitor,” he confesses.

Ferdinand looks at him. The archer’s pale green eyes are locked on the far wall of the shed, conflicted and uneasy.

“For missing them,” Ashe clarifies, swallowing. “The other Lions.”

“It is understandable,” says Ferdinand. “I...I will admit that even I feel sick at the thought of facing any of them on the battlefield. I do not think that makes you a traitor, Ashe. I think that makes you a person.” 

“I never got to speak to them, before I went to join all of you,” says Ashe. “I wanted to, but I...I knew I would lose my courage. I knew that if they asked me to stay, fight with them, I would, even knowing what the Church had done. So I ran away rather than risk losing my resolve. But I wonder now if...if I could have changed any of their minds, before it was too late.”

“I still hold out hope that it is not,” says Ferdinand. “Dimitri himself may be beyond reason, maddened by grief and the archbishop’s manipulation; I fear that no one could uncloud his eyes at this point. But the others — Mercedes and Annette, perhaps even Sylvain, Ingrid and Felix — I think they may yet understand why the church must fall.” 

There is a long pause.

“But not Dedue,” Ashe finishes quietly, eyes flicking to the ground.

Ferdinand looks over at him. Ashe’s expression has changed, but he can’t quite read it.

“I...I will admit I never knew him well,” says Ferdinand. “But from what I do know, I find it unlikely he would abandon his king, no matter the strength of the reason.”

Ashe nods, closing his eyes. His shoulders seem to cave in on themselves a little. Ferdinand realizes he’s said something wrong.

“You were close,” he surmises.

Ashe nods again. He swallows thickly. 

“He...he was kind, and gentle, and he didn’t belong either,” he says quietly. “I thought that maybe...we could belong with each other.” 

Ferdinand’s eyes widen in surprise, a sad, warm feeling taking root in the pit of his stomach. 

“You loved him,” he says softly, wonderingly. 

Ferdinand can see tears gathering on Ashe’s pale eyelashes, though his eyes stay closed. He doesn’t speak. Ferdinand wants to say something wise, something comforting, but he can’t find the words, so he just lays his hand on Ashe’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” says Ashe, voice cracking. “I knew...I knew I could never come first, that he’d always choose Prince Dimitri over me. But I thought that maybe I could still matter to him, somehow.” 

Ferdinand moves the hand from Ashe’s shoulder all the way around the other man’s back, holding him in a one-armed embrace as best he can in the confines of the shed. Ashe leans into the touch, biting back a sob as he leans his head against Ferdinand’s shoulder. How much his deteriorating composure is due to pain, exhaustion, or long-bottled emotion, Ferdinand can't say.

“I’m sorry,” Ashe whispers. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this.” 

“There is no need to apologize,” says Ferdinand, holding back his own tears — he has always been awful about crying just because someone else is. He thinks for a long time about his next words, which he should not speak. And yet he does:

“I...know what it is to love someone whose highest loyalty will never be to you," he says. "And I cannot imagine what would become of my heart if it were not sworn to that same cause.”

Ashe’s fingers curl into Ferdinand’s cloak as he nods, a gesture Ferdinand feels more than he sees. They stay like that a moment, Ashe pressed into Ferdinand’s side and Ferdinand’s arm around his shoulders, taking comfort in one another’s breathing. 

Finally, Ashe rights himself, wiping the tears from his eyes self-consciously. Ferdinand waits a moment before he pulls his arm back, just to be sure.

“May I ask a question?” asks Ashe, resuming the nervous fiddling with his bracer cord.

Ferdinand nods.

“Do you ever wonder if...if you’re afraid to love someone who might put you first, because deep down you think you don’t deserve it?” 

It’s been cold all day. Somehow Ferdinand hadn’t really felt the chill until now.

“I’m sorry,” says Ashe quickly, taking in the stricken expression on Ferdinand’s face. “I didn’t mean to...I’m sure it’s different, for you.” 

Ferdinand doesn’t know how to answer, so he doesn’t. Instead, realizing that the sound of the rain has dropped off considerably, he maneuvers himself onto his knees, then his feet, pushing the front door open and stooping out to examine the state of the sky. With some relief, he sees that its forbidding grey has given way to a pale silver, the sodden forest around them lit with the late afternoon light. The odd droplet still falls, but it’s hard to tell if it’s still actually raining or just the trees shedding what they collected during the downpour.

“The storm is passed, for the most part,” he says, dipping his head back into the shack to make his report. “If you are able, I would suggest we try and make it another few miles before we lose the light. I fear the longer we are out here, the more difficult it will become for you to travel with your leg.”

Ashe nods, accepting the out, and Ferdinand grabs both of their cloaks, unfortunately still quite wet. With some effort, they get Ashe out of the shed and onto his feet, and Ferdinand back into his pauldron..The sun is still hidden behind the depleted clouds, and Ferdinand hesitates to identify South, but Ashe quickly deduces it from something about the moss on the trees around them. 

Soon they’re limping on, ignoring the ache of their muscles and the ever-diminishing odds of reaching the Empire before nightfall.

* * *

In the end, they’re forced to stop a little after the sun goes down. The mud and the low light make it impossible for them to move without stumbling every other step, which reliably causes Ashe to gasp in pain, and once even to cry out (thankfully no enemy — beast or man — seems to be around to take note). When they settle against a little rock outcropping, its jut shielding them from the worst of the wind, Ferdinand once again takes first watch, and Ashe is unconscious within moments. 

The hours are dark and cold and hungry as Ferdinand mulls over everything they’ve discussed. A few times he hears the snapping of twigs or the rustling of the underbrush and puts a hand to his sword, but whatever creatures are prowling the Gaspard Woods blessedly never take an interest in them.

Finally, when Ferdinand can force himself to stay awake no longer, he moves to rouse Ashe, calculating that there are only two or three hours left before daybreak. They must be close by now. Just a little ways further, once the light is good enough.

But Ashe does not awaken when Ferdinand shakes him, just lets out a soft groan. When Ferdinand tries again, a great shiver wracks Ashe’s body, his breath coming in pained little gasps. Hurrying to pull off his gauntlet and then his glove, Ferdinand presses the back of his hand to the other man’s forehead and finds it hot to the touch — a fever, almost certainly the result of an infection of his wound. Swearing in dismay, Ferdinand tries to remember what Manuela taught them years ago.

Water — water is important, she’d said. Pulling Ashe’s waterskin from his belt, Ferdinand hauls the other man up into a seated position and brings it to his lips. Ashe splutters a little but manages to swallow some, teeth chattering as he slowly comes awake.

“F...Ferdie?” he whispers uncertainly, hands coming up to hold the waterskin.

“I am here,” Ferdinand reassures him. “You need to drink more. Can you manage it?” 

Ashe nods, struggling to swallow. He takes two more labored gulps, hands trembling. Through the dark, Ferdinand watches his face anxiously — his pale eyes are half-lidded and his movements are sluggish, not just with sleep. If they do not reach help soon, it’s unlikely he’ll keep his leg, much less his life.

“Good,” says Ferdinand when Ashe has drained his waterskin. He tries to sound more assured than he feels as he clips it to his own belt. “Rest now.”

“The watch,” Ashe murmurs in protest, still shivering. “M-my turn…”

“Not yet,” Ferdinand lies, helping Ashe ease down onto his back. “I will wake you again when it is. Sleep now.”

Ashe doesn’t reply. The moment his head reaches the ground, he’s gone. 

Ferdinand stands, not trusting himself to stay awake if he remains sitting. He considers that he could just give in and rest, leave them without a watch for a bit — they must be close to the border by now, so the odds that the Kingdom will come upon them are slim. But now he is worried not just about enemy scouts or wild animals, but Ashe’s condition. If he sleeps, and it worsens, he could awaken to a much worse scenario than they’re already in. Ferdinand’s usual gumption is running out, and for the first time since the ambush, he feels truly afraid. 

In the end, that fear keeps him awake until dawn comes. He wakes Ashe, has him drink the remainder of the contents of his own waterskin, and hefts him upright, feeling every shiver that shakes the shorter man’s frame. 

“Not far to go now, Ashe,” Ferdinand tells him as they set off. 

Ashe nods weakly. His face is flushed, his eyes glassy, his breathing shallow. Each step seems a labor now, between Ashe’s worsening condition and Ferdinand’s sheer exhaustion.

To keep them awake and distract them from the present situation, Ferdinand pushes conversation. He asks about Ashe's childhood, learns of his parents’ restaurant and the games he used to play with his brother and sister in these very woods. He learns more of Lord Lonato, stern and scholarly, and of Christophe, soft-hearted and brave. He learns that Annette spent every other evening helping Ashe study at the Academy, because he learned to read much later in life than the other students and it was difficult for him to keep up. He learns of all the things Dedue liked to cook, and the meals he and Ashe made together in the kitchens at Garreg Mach, keeping their families’ memories alive together through flame and flavor. 

When Ashe can’t talk anymore, his voice too raspy and his breath too labored, Ferdinand takes over the task. He tells Ashe about his sisters and the dappled sunlight in the Aegir orchards, about the incredible architecture of Enbarr, and the time he swears he saw a water nymph in a fountain outside the Opera House. He tells him about meeting Edelgard and Hubert as little children there, how they were eerie little adults in small bodies even then. He tells him about his dream that one day, as Prime Minister, he’ll open up schools all across Fódlan so that everyone can read and write and choose the kind of work they’d like to do, the kind of life they’d like to have, so that birth won’t be destiny any longer.

He’s just reaching the end of that dream, voice wavering with emotion and fatigue, when he hears a loud _crack_ through the wood off to their left. Immediately he freezes, the hand not braced around Ashe’s back falling to his sword. A moment later, a distinctly human shout goes up, and there’s a flash of movement through the trees as a shape rushes toward them.

They’ve been spotted.

Steel sings out as Ferdinand unsheathes his sword, adrenaline forcing some of the thick fog from his brain. He holds his ground, one arm still holding Ashe up, and focuses on the rapid approach of the brown-cloaked figure barrelling toward them. It will have to be a decisive first strike — he will not survive a drawn-out encounter in this state.

The figure bursts from the trees. Ferdinand takes a swing at it without hesitation, and is met with a skilled parry that wrenches his blade right out of his hand. He braces himself for the killing blow, only to hear the stranger’s blade join his own on the forest floor and feel their arms thrown bodily about both him and Ashe.

“You are having survived!” says a familiar voice in his ear, thick with disbelief and joy.

“Petra?!” he chokes out, heart hammering.

“Oh, thank Sothis!” says another voice, warm and musical and audibly relieved. 

“Dorothea,” Ferdinand gasps, his own relief deepening as she steps out of the trees and lowers her hood. 

“You look awful,” she says, taking in the sight of him over Petra’s shoulder. “But alive, which is better than what we feared when the first of your scouts came back."

“Ashe is wounded,” says Ferdinand, disentangling himself from Petra’s embrace. “You must heal him, quickly. I fear infection has already set in.”

Petra pulls back, alarm glinting in her bright eyes as she takes Ashe from Ferdinand, lowering him to the ground easily. Ferdinand stumbles back, his own knees suddenly weak as reality sinks in: they’ve been found. They’re going to make it after all.

He kneels by Ashe’s side, waiting to be told what to do, how to help, but the two women move swiftly and methodically without him. Petra uses her hunting knife to slice through the makeshift bandage and cut open Ashe’s pant leg, then moves to the side and takes one of his hands in hers. The wound is a deep, ugly brown, red streaks marking the pale skin around it. Ferdinand has to look away, but Dorothea does not so much as flinch as she removes her gloves to perform a quick examination. 

“The arrowhead is still inside?” she checks.

Ashe nods shakily.

“We will have to be removing it,” says Petra, squeezing his hand.

“Yes,” says Dorothea. “If we cut it out, I can heal the wound here. The infection I can’t treat on the spot — it will need Manuela’s attention.”

“We are two days’ travel from Garreg Mach, even on horseback,” Ferdinand says worriedly. “I fear how it could spread in that time.”

“We came here on Kalamai,” says Dorothea, naming her partner’s wyvern. “Petra can fly him back in less than a day. You and I will finish the walk to Arundel, find passage back some other way.”

“Right,” says Ferdinand.

“Then it is decided,” says Petra. “Ashe — please be listening to my voice.”

And she begins telling him a story of the gods of Brigid, of how the tides came to be, representing the great compromise between the sun and the moon.

Retrieving the arrowhead is the worst of it. Even distracted by Petra’s voice and muffled by the leather scabbard she gives him to bite, Ashe’s scream seems to echo through the entirety of the Gaspard Wood. When Dorothea has successfully maneuvered the metal out of his flesh, she begins to imbue the wound with Faith, and the deep crease in Ashe’s brow begins to ease. By the time it’s healed, he is out cold, Petra’s hand gently combing through his matted hair as her story comes to an end. 

They stay there a moment, breathing deep, the three of them kneeling around their friend’s unconscious form.

“Ferdie,” says Dorothea, pulling on her gloves and finally reaching for him. Her voice is tired and warm. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

He lets her pull him into a firm embrace, fighting the urge to cry. He feels dirty, his clothes muddied and damp and spattered with blood against her much cleaner person, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She holds him close and runs a hand up and down his wide back, lingering for far longer than he might once have considered proper.

“Come on,” says Dorothea at last, pulling away and tenderly tucking a strand of his filthy hair behind his ear. “Kalamai is a half a league away, give or take. There are provisions in her saddlebag. We’ll see Petra and Ashe off and make for Arundel.”

Ferdinand had nearly forgotten his hunger in his desperation. Now he feels the emptiness of his stomach return four-fold. He nods, and they all rise.

As Dorothea packs up her kit, Ferdinand retrieves his sword and sheathes it, realizing they’ll need to carry Ashe the rest of the way. Before he can move to try and pick him up, Petra has hefted the archer over her shoulders in an easy fireman’s carry.

Dorothea seems to enjoy the look of surprise on Ferdinand’s face.

“She’s very strong,” she says with a conspiratorial smile that leaves him red-faced. 

Ferdinand is still exhausted, still starving, still aching with every step, but the fear that has underpinned his every thought the last few days has eased with the arrival of his friends. Petra and Dorothea inform him of the goings-on at Garreg Mach this last week, including the encouraging news that nearly all of Ashe’s scouts are accounted for at this point. When they reach the clearing where the wyvern waits, Ferdinand helps Petra maneuver a semiconscious Ashe up into the saddle, where she straps him in securely and takes her place at his back. Dorothea fetches what they need from the saddlebags, and Petra takes up the reins. Then, with a great flapping of the beasts’s leathery wings, they’re off.

It takes Ferdinand and Dorothea only a few more hours to reach the merchant road that runs between Gaspard and Arundel. Invigorated by the bread, meat and fruit Dorothea shares, not to mention her easy company, Ferdinand finds the journey isn’t so hard, even as weary as he is. 

Though the road is not much trafficked, the occasional merchant cart or carriage trundles along it, mostly moving goods from one town to the next. He’s mortified when Dorothea flags down a hay cart and flirts unsubtly with the driver to secure them passage in the back of it. But once he’s nestled in among the bales, off his feet and out of enemy territory for the first time in days, he can’t fault her for it in the least.

He tries to make conversation for the first half hour or so, some sense of noble propriety telling him it would be rude to doze off on his rescuer. She sees through him, as usual. After some back-and-forth, she convinces him to stretch out in the hay, his head pillowed in her lap. From there, it’s not long before he’s nodding off, the rocking motion of the cart and her sweet singing lulling him into oblivion.

* * *

It’s a blessedly uneventful journey back to the monastery. They spend one night in a military outpost along the way, their status in the Imperial Army enough to secure room and board for both them and the cart driver, and one more camped along the side of the road. The cart turns off shy of Garreg Mach, bound for Remire Village; they finish the trip on foot.

It’s a bit surreal to approach the great gates of Garreg Mach as footsoldiers might, but the guards on duty recognize them even without regalia or battalions. They usher in the two commanders and a messenger is sent to inform Lady Edelgard of their return. When Ferdinand inquires, they report that Captain Ubert is in stable condition and recovering well under Manuela’s care, having arrived with Lieutenant General Macneary two nights ago.

With one more grateful clasp of Dorothea’s arms — an embrace being too intimate a gesture in front of the troops, and likely to spur misunderstanding — Ferdinand takes his leave.

He has never been happier to see his room, armor-strewn and untidy as it is. Yet that relief pales in comparison to the feeling of slipping into the steaming tub in the officers’ washroom a little later, the magic-heated water soaking away the dirt and blood and tension of the last few days. He indulges himself by draining and refilling it twice, with a mental apology to whatever mage maintains the Flow and Heat sigils. By the end, he is pink-skinned from the scrubbing and more than a little prune-fingered from the long soak. He regrets neither outcome.

When he returns to his room, hair tamed and dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, he finds tea — slightly oversteeped, like his own personage — and a plate of supper waiting on his desk. His filthy scouting uniform is gone, he notes, though the armored components of it remain on his floor. His benefactor clearly knows him well enough not to delegate care of his equipment, a task about which Ferdinand is quite particular. There is also a new stack of papers on his desk that appear to be training reports from his lieutenants and a few more diplomatic matters from Lady Edelgard. 

It would have been nice to see Hubert himself, of course. Still, Ferdinand can’t help but smile as he tucks into the meal, fork in one hand and reports in the other.

By the time he’s caught up, the sun has been down a few hours. The call of sleep is strong, but he postpones it just a little longer in favor of making the trip to the infirmary, where he finds Caspar sitting at Ashe’s bedside.

“Ferdie!” Caspar greets, jumping to his feet and pulling him into an enthusiastic hug, complete with vigorous back-pounding. “Ashe was just telling me how awful you are at all that wilderness survival stuff.”

“I — that’s not at all what I was saying!” Ashe splutters, looking aghast as where he sits upright in the infirmary bed. “I was just remarking on how much you learned in such a short span of time.”

“Yeah, but you can only learn that much if you know nothing to begin with,” says Caspar.

“A fair point,” Ferdinand says, smiling sheepishly as Caspar flops back into his chair. “We all have our strengths. I am more aware than ever that scouting is not one of mine.”

Caspar grins, then to Ferdinand’s surprise, hauls a rather overlarge black and white cat into his lap from where it’s been lurking beneath the bed. As he begins scritching behind its ears, Ferdinand decides he’s too tired to ask.

“You did fine,” Ashe tries to reassure him. “Besides, you succeeded in the most important part of wilderness survival, which is…”

“...surviving,” Ferdinand finishes with him, laughing. “I suppose that is true. Speaking of survival — how are you feeling?” 

“Much better,” says Ashe, and he looks it — the color has returned to his cheeks, and his eyes have lost that fevered shine. “Manuela says that in a day or two I’ll be back to normal, ready to deploy again, even.” 

“That is excellent news,” says Ferdinand. “Though I hope you will take the time to rest and recuperate fully before you accept a new assignment. I suspect Petra will have all our heads if you are thrown right back into harm’s way.”

“Hey, I’d be right there with her,” says Caspar, looking up. “Knowing one of you was out there somewhere in the woods in the Kingdom was bad enough. To think we’d lost track of _both_ of you…”

He frowns, his expression momentarily matching the grumpy-looking cat he’s still petting.

“I think it was fortunate that we were lost together, actually,” says Ferdinand. “I am not sure I would have survived the initial encounter had Ashe not stopped to fight with me.” 

“And I certainly wouldn’t have made it back alive on my own after that,” says Ashe. He sounds quite serious all of a sudden. “Thank you, Ferdinand. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“There is nothing to repay,” says Ferdinand. “It was my duty as a noble — and more importantly, my honor as your friend — to see you to safety. Though if you were amenable to it, I would like it if we could continue to get to know one another sometime soon, preferably under less dire circumstances.”

  
Ashe smiles at that, sincere and sweet.

“I’d like that very much,” he replies.

“We could all train together!” Caspar suggests, as the cat takes his exclamation as a chance to escape. “We all have really different styles, so I bet we’d learn a lot from each other.”

“You are probably right,” says Ferdinand, smiling. “For the present moment, though, I believe I have the most to learn from a good night’s rest. I will take my leave, if it is all right with the two of you.”

“Of course,” says Caspar. “No problem. You’ve gotta be exhausted.”

“Ashe, it is good to see you in better health and spirits,” says Ferdinand, moving to the doorway and waving. “Caspar, a joy as always.”

“Good night, Ferdie!”

“Good night.”

* * *

When he arrives back at his room, it is less empty than he’s expecting. A familiar black-cloaked figure sits at his desk, perusing a pair of letters that disappear into a hidden pocket almost as soon as the door swings open. 

Ferdinand knows better than to acknowledge him before the door is shut. When the _click_ heralds that the Silence sigil is active, he steps forward, fighting the impulse to rush to the other man. Instead, he waits as Hubert rises, pushes the chair in with maddening deliberateness, and steps to him.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert greets, stopping a half a pace away. “It’s good to see you returned in one piece.”

Too tired to prioritize dignity any longer, Ferdinand closes the distance between them and pulls him into a close embrace. After a moment, he feels Hubert’s hands come to rest on his back, holding him too gingerly. Ferdinand presses his face into Hubert’s shoulder and takes a deep, shaky breath, smelling bitter coffee, dusty tomes, and fresh ink.

“Thank you for supper,” he murmurs into Hubert’s collar.

He pulls away as Hubert nods in acknowledgement, gloved hands beginning a methodical investigation of Ferdinand’s person, searching for hurt.

“I am uninjured,” Ferdinand reassures him, enjoying the attentive touch all the same. Another day he might push his luck, make some kind of flirtatious overture out of the situation, but right now he is simply happy to be Hubert’s focus.

When Hubert concludes his investigation with Ferdinand’s hands, satisfied that he is not being overly stoic, he presses a kiss to his knuckles and straightens back up.

“You had many people quite worried,” he tells him, green eyes glinting in the dim light. 

“I know,” says Ferdinand. He gives a playful, self-conscious laugh. “I was one of them.”

Hubert doesn’t laugh in turn, but he does lean in to kiss him properly at that, firm but not demanding, waiting for Ferdinand to respond in kind before deepening the gesture. 

“How was Lord Arundel’s visit?” Ferdinand asks when they pull apart, trying not to sound too breathless.

“It achieved its intended purpose,” says Hubert cryptically. He tries to kiss Ferdinand again but Ferdinand pulls back just enough to thwart him, placing a staying hand on Hubert’s chest. 

“Hubert,” he says, before he can forget or lose his nerve. “I understand it is important that I not collaborate directly with Arundel, and I also understand that you cannot tell me why. But given both those truths, would you consider letting me determine how I might best be utilized when he visits, rather than making up arbitrary assignments to keep me away?”

Hubert has the gall to laugh at that, though at least he looks a little embarrassed.

“They are never arbitrary,” he says, fingers threading into Ferdinand’s nearly-dry hair. “But I will admit I didn’t give this particular endeavor the forethought it merited. I regret that my oversight put you in danger.”

“Oh?” says Ferdinand, trying not to shiver as Hubert’s hand brushes over the nape of his neck. “And what _was_ the idea behind it?”

“I would think that would be obvious to you.”

It isn’t. Ferdinand feels a familiar pang of worry that Hubert has overestimated him. 

“Ashe believed it was to surveil him,” says Ferdinand, buying himself time to think. “Because you do not trust his loyalty to the Empire.”

Hubert’s reaction is so subtle that Ferdinand would have missed it were he not practically standing nose-to-nose with him: a flicker of a frown, a soft flash of disappointment in those piercing eyes.

“But I think,” Ferdinand goes on, hesitating as Hubert’s other hand comes to rest on the small of his back, “I think it was the opposite. I think you want to bring him more into the fold, and you thought deploying me with his battalion might achieve that.”

Hubert hums his approval and leans forward. Relieved to have passed the test, Ferdinand doesn’t stop him, accepting the press of Hubert’s mouth on his, the hand on his back that draws their bodies close. Hubert holds back at first, careful and conscientious, but with Ferdinand’s encouragement he soon grows less reserved.

Before long, Ferdinand is pushing Hubert backwards, guiding them both through the haphazard armory of his floor without breaking the kiss for more than a breath at a time. The backs of Hubert’s legs hit the edge of Ferdinand’s bed and he sits ungracefully, bringing Ferdinand down with him. Ferdinand is so very tired, but he is also uneasy in a way he’s not used to, eager for reassurance, which Hubert’s touch provides. 

“I can’t stay long,” Hubert whispers hoarsely when Ferdinand’s mouth begins to stray towards his neck. “I have an assignment tonight.”

_Of course._

Ferdinand nods, masking his disappointment, and gives Hubert’s throat a lingering kiss. Instead of unbuttoning his jacket, he places his hands flat against Hubert’s chest and pushes him onto his back, then rolls to lie on his side next to him, both of them breathing unsteadily into the darkness.

As he watches the side of Hubert’s face, pale and inscrutable, Ferdinand’s mind wanders.

What is this, truly? A matter of comfort and convenience, as material as it will ever be? 

Is there a future where Ferdinand could become Hubert’s first thought? If so, would he truly _be_ Hubert, and would Ferdinand still long for him? Or is this — the kisses cut short, the long nights working side by side, the slow unfolding of their mutual martyrdom — all his fragile sense of self can bear to want? And if it is, is that so bad?

“Ferdinand,” says Hubert’s quiet voice, pulling him from his thoughts. “You did well, to deliver yourself and Ashe home safely.”

Ferdinand hates how quickly his chest warms at such affirmation.

“The Empire needs you,” Hubert continues. “Both of you.”

“I know,” says Ferdinand, forcing a tired smile. He lifts a hand to cup Hubert’s jaw and turn his face towards him, thumb smoothing over his sharp cheekbone. “It needs you, too, Hubert. Whatever it is you must do tonight, please be safe.”

_I need you,_ he does not say, and wonders if Hubert is not-saying the same thing.

They lie in silence for a long moment, Ferdinand tracing the gaunt lines of Hubert’s face and fighting off sleep, Hubert watching him through the dark with an unreadable expression.

“I should be going,” says Hubert eventually. Ferdinand thinks he sounds regretful, but maybe that’s just what he wants to hear.

The weight on the bed shifts as Hubert pushes himself sitting, then leans over to tug the covers out from under Ferdinand. Efficiently, but not without care, he drapes them over Ferdinand’s drowsy form, tucking him in.

Ferdinand closes his eyes, sinks into the familiar pillow beneath his cheek, feels the loss of Hubert’s weight as the other man rises to his feet.

“Sleep well,” Hubert whispers. There’s a moment of silence, Hubert seeming to hesitate before he bends to press a kiss to Ferdinand’s temple.

His footsteps mark his exit, and Ferdinand is asleep before the door is even shut, feeling the lingering of Hubert’s lips against his forehead like an unanswerable question.


End file.
